Tonight, Take Note of Only My Gaze
by DewyPeach
Summary: England was there in France's darkest moments of self-loathing and despair. Now, he finally sees him shine. This is my work for the Hetalia Writers' Discord's OTP Event, inspired by the prompts "close" and "why are you crying?"


The hall that France had chosen for the event was splendid, if somewhat old-fashioned, with a marble floor that glittered in the golden light of dozens of crystal chandeliers. England, in his simple black suit, felt out of place among the extravagantly dressed French who floated around and chatted excitedly about things of no importance whatsoever. He sat at a table on the side, as he always did in such events, pretending to read a book but actually looking around with a scrutinizing eye. Was that a wine fountain? Typical.

"God, I hate France," he groaned. "Why does he always have to be such a show-off?"

The British ambassador, who sat next to him, perked up upon hearing the sulky England talk at last. New to his job and determined to have some sort of conversation, he agreed with enthusiasm: "yes, he's completely insufferable, stuck-up and daft!"

England set down his book and slowly turned to glare at him. It was one thing when England said such things, but hearing someone else insult France was unreasonably infuriating.

Somehow mistaking his gaze for interest, the ambassador went on, leaning close in a conspiratory manner: "I heard that he's going to show up tonight dressed in a… well, a dress. And it wouldn't be the first time such a thing happens, either."

England's frown deepened. His hands, under the table, clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists. "Yeah, and what's wrong with that?"

"Why, France indulges in many womanly things like that. It's quite embarrassing, I'd say, even pathetic, for someone of his status to show it in public, no? A real man wouldn't-" He suddenly stopped talking, growing pale at England's threatening expression and the realisation that he'd said something very wrong.

"No," England snapped, "France is not _a real man_ , he's a nation. Which means he's an immortal being who's been around for longer than your tiny brain could possibly comprehend! It also means you cannot confine him with your stupid human social constructs. If France wants to wear a dress, he'll wear the bloody dress and you can shove your shitty opinion up your arsehole! NO, SHUT UP!" he raised his voice as the ambassador tried to slip in a mumbled apology. "You'll never be half the man France is, so shut your gob!"

The ambassador stared at him open-mouthed and shaking, and said nothing.

England crossed his arms over his chest and let out a long, angry breath, which did nothing to calm him, so he stood up and began pacing back and forth. He was probably stressed, tired and overworked, but hypocritical as it was, hearing such things being said about France always pissed him off on a personal level and gave him a strong, almost physical urge to defend France from the injustice of the world.

 _Why are people so hateful of what's different than them?_

Back when they were children, it was just the two of them in a free, endless world, and there was no one around to tell them what to do and who to be. It was the stupid ideas of men that drove France into the darkest pits of despair, and England would never forgive them for it.

* * *

 _It was in the Early 14th century when England returned sweaty and exhausted from sword practice to find France curled up on his bed in a tight, shivering ball. "Arthur," came his shaky voice, "I'm sorry I'm here… I know, with how things are looking between us… But I really need your help…"_

 _England dropped his wooden practice sword with a loud crash and ran to his side, all the tension of their most-likely-approaching war forgotten in a moment. "What happened? Are you alright?"_

 _France rolled over and looked up at him, two lines of glistening tears running down his cheeks._

" _What's wrong, Franny?" England asked more urgently. He flopped down onto the bed and pulled France into his lap. Gently, he ran his fingers over his smooth golden hair. "Why are you crying?"_

 _France let out a series of wet sobs and buried his face in the front of England's tunic, hot tears soaking through it. "I don't want to be a man," he whimpered miserably in a voice that was barely loud enough to be heard._

" _W-what?" England blinked, a confused crinkle appearing between his eyebrows. "Why?"_

" _All the things that I like," France whispered, his eyes scrunched shut. "What I like doing, wearing. I can't - I have to give it up. Everything. It's wrong for men to be like this. Like me."_

" _Oh, come on, Fran." England kept stroking France's hair, brushing wet strands out of his red face. "Who made you think that way?"_

" _Everyone knows it. The court, the people. I used to be ignorant, but now I know the truth. I've been going against the will of God." France's breath came out short and shallow as he tried to hold back his sobs. "I am an abomination. I have to change."_

" _Don't say that!" England's hand stopped moving. He bit his lip, and for a moment, couldn't speak. There was an ache in his chest that he couldn't explain. "There is nothing wrong with you. There never was, and there is no reason for it to be different now. Your rulers can't force you to change. They don't know what's right or wrong. Don't fucking listen to them, alright? You're perfect the way you are. So just keep doing what you've always been doing."_

 _France let out a faint, choked laughter. "But I can't. Even if I wanted to."_

" _Why not?"_

" _They took my things away."_

" _Oh, I'll fucking kill them!" England bit down harder and tasted blood. Before he knew it, he was speaking quickly, in a harsh whisper, hearing his pulse pounding in his ears. "I won't let anyone do that to you. I'll get your things back, you'll see. I won't let you get hurt. It's going to be alright…"_

 _France shifted and pulled himself close to England's chest, hesitantly putting his arms around him. "You don't have to do that," he said. "But thank you. Thank you so much, Artie. It's good to hear you say those things. I just- I don't really know who I am, lately."_

 _Who_ was _he?_

 _He was France, England's greatest rival, the largest threat to his lands and people. He had marched to war against him many times in the past, and would certainly do so again in the future. He was the reason for countless deaths, the bringer of disaster and sorrow._

 _He was also Francis, the boy Arthur grew up with, the one who raised him and taught him to see the beauty and wonder in the world. He was the person who knew him best, and would always be there for him. Francis, always happy and hopeful, now desperate and heartbroken._

 _Despite everything he had done, England would kill to defend his happiness._

 _He placed a soft kiss on France's forehead. "You're Francis, my best friend," he said. "Everything else is not important."_

* * *

England was still pacing back and forth, lost in memories, when a hand gently touched his. "Hello, Arthur," said a very familiar voice, "you look upset, what's happened?"

"No, no, it's nothing-" England replied automatically. He turned around, then gasped, all hints of anger seeping away immediately.

France was wearing a sleeveless, dark blue dress which hugged his upper body tightly but fell around his legs like a waterfall of velvet. Through a high slit in the skirt, suggestive glimpses of a perfect, smooth and sculptured leg could be seen. His silhouette was curvy, his stance elegant and graceful, so different than the way he usually was. He was effortlessly feminine and beautiful. The colour of his dress and a touch of smoky eyeshadow made the blue of his eyes seem darker, deeper, mysterious and irresistible like a strong ocean current ready to snatch the onlooker and pull him under.

England found himself completely willing to become lost in those depths.

"You look hot," England spluttered without thinking. As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt a warmth spreading across his face and ears, and cursed himself for becoming so helpless every single time. "It… really suits you."

"Why thank you," France replied, looking fondly amused at England's obvious embarrassment. "Some others here don't seem to like it as much."

England glanced around, noticing several people staring - the hollow-headed British ambassador among them. "They're just jealous," he promised, "you're stealing everyone's show."

"Oh, I know that." France gave a lazy grin. "You look quite hot yourself."

England smiled back. "Nice party," he said. "What's with the old music?"

"I know you don't like modern dancing music. And…" France's lashes fluttered. "I was hoping to dance with you again."

England's breath caught in his throat. France could easily do this to him, when he wanted, making him feel like a nervous an inexperienced young man all over again. Determined not to let him win, England took his hand. "Let's go get that dance, then."

As they started towards the dance floor, England pulled closer, intending on walking arm-in-arm; but France pressed against his side, and England's arm ended up around his waist. He felt soft, warm velvet under his palm, and smelled a sweet scent of roses - France's all-time favourite. Suddenly, he felt a blooming sense of exaltation; There was a statement in this gesture, meant for everyone around them to see.

 _France and the UK stand together despite Brexit, partners in defence, trade and culture._

Yes, this was indeed a good time in their relationship. But England wasn't fooled - he knew they would fight again, return to hating each other and causing the other pain and misery... and most likely get back together afterwards, with more horrible memories to store in the dark, silent parts of their hearts. They were like two stars forever orbiting around one another, unable to pull free of the mighty gravity.

He preferred not to think of it. The present was what mattered. The present, in which his dance partner was the most beautiful person in the hall, so stunning in his dress that he made the jaws of all men drop with amazement and the eyes of all women narrow with envy. The closeness of him made England dizzy.

Before he noticed, they were standing on the shining dance floor. A waltz started, the opening notes slow and mellow, completely unfitting to England's quickened heartbeat as he took the lead. He had to tilt his face upwards in order to look into France's eyes. Normally, they were about the same height; now, in his high heels, France was a few centimetres taller. It didn't cause any problems while dancing, though, as they had centuries of practice together. They moved smoothly, as perfectly coordinated as ever.

* * *

 _England stared at the plain wooden door, set in a thick stone wall, and contemplated knocking. He wasn't supposed to be there; his presence at this castle was against all political interests that the Crown stood for. He had made all the way hiding in the shadow of his dark green cape, the cloak pulled securely around him, his heart full of doubts - what if someone found out?_

 _And more importantly than that - did he want to do this?_

 _Did France deserve it?_

 _England shifted from foot to foot and adjusted the weight of his leather sack on his shoulder. He let out a long, heavy sigh._

 _At that moment, the door swung open, putting an end to his pondering. Barefoot, in his white sleeping robe, with dark circles under his red-shot eyes, France looked like the ghost of a boy. "Arthur?" he asked. "What are you doing here?"_

 _It had been a month since his unexpected appearance in England's bedroom, and they hadn't spoken since. From France's nervous posture and the way he wouldn't look directly at England's face, it was clear he would prefer that meeting to never be mentioned again._

" _I've got something for you," England said._

 _France bit his lip, hesitating, then stepped aside. "Please, come in."_

 _England shuffled past the door, his shoulder brushing against France's. It was dark inside. There was a window, but it was only open to a slight crack, leaving most of the room in shadow and doing nothing to ward off the cold dampness typical to castle interiors. "Were you sleeping?" he asked._

" _Trying to."_

" _I'm sorry I woke you up."_

" _It's alright, I can't sleep anyway."_

 _England's eyes wandered across the room. It had changed. The tapestry, once showing a calm conversation in a rose garden, was replaced with a hunting scene; the curtain hanging from the bed canopy was darker, devoid of the lily motifs that France had loved so much. There were rough marks on the floor where once stood a vanity with a carved jewellery box, makeup brushes and an ivory comb. Most noticeably, a new addition had been fixed to the wall - a shield and crossed swords upon a wooden plaque. England stepped closer and touched one of the blades. His reflection looked back at him, concerned, from the smooth surface. "What are you trying to prove?"_

 _France smiled sadly. "You know what."_

 _It felt unfair. France was an excellent fighter - as England had learned the hard way - and shouldn't have needed to prove it to anyone. That, and the fact that he enjoyed beautiful things and looking pretty, had nothing to do with each other. But one had become a symbol of masculinity, and the other…_

 _England removed the sack from his tired shoulder and held it out. "For you."_

" _Really? What is it?"_

" _Open it and you'll see."_

" _You shouldn't have," France said, but he was almost smiling. He sat down on the bed to undo the straps. After some fiddling, he reached inside._

 _England held his breath._

 _France's hand was drowned in a sea of shiny, light-blue silk, and froze. His eyes widened, his lips began to tremble, and then his whole face crumpled, overwhelmed with emotion. "Oh, Arthur."_

" _I saw it when I passed by the tailor's," England said quickly._ Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry, _he thought,_ or I'll cry too. " _I thought you might like it."_

" _I love it. but-"_

" _Then try it on!" England cut him off, not wanting to hear what would come next._

" _I-" France shook his head. "I can't."_

" _Please. I'd love to see it on you."_

 _France slowly pulled out his present, the fabric flowing between his hands like water. He looked at it with sorrowful eyes. "I gave a promise that I would stop."_

" _No one will know."_

 _France grabbed fistfuls of silk with both hands, pressing it to his chest in a bundle like a dear stuffed toy. He closed his eyes, inhaling the unique and distinctive smell. "No one but God."_

 _Of course. England should've seen that coming. France's faith was stronger than his own; It had become a part of his life, his being. Oh, not that England did not believe - he did. At least most of the time. But he hadn't been so quick to forget his past, and he had his moments of doubt - now was one of them._

" _A woman shall not wear a man's garment, nor shall a man put on a woman's cloak," France whispered, eyes cast down. His hands moved as if on their own, smoothing out creases in the fabric, measuring the dress against his body, sliding down the sleeves to stroke the strips of gold-embroidered trim, which caught a ray of faint sunshine, glittering cheerfully. "For whoever does these things is an abomination to the Lord your God."_

 _England's hands twitched at his sides, and suddenly, he stepped forward and gripped France's shoulders. From the gap in his belief, the part of his mind which remembered a lost world, he drew his next words. They burned on his tongue, and he felt like a traitor and a heretic, but it was worth it. "Do you remember when we were children, before we heard about the Christian god? You were free to choose your way, then. Our old gods never made you hate yourself."_

 _France slowly looked up at him. "They weren't real," he said with astonishment. "How dare you speak like that, Arthur?"_

" _Weren't they?"_

 _France liked to pretend that he didn't remember, but England didn't believe him. They had walked together through forests full of ancient magic, through stone circles under eternal twilight skies. And they were never alone. There were the others, creatures older than time, watching over them, figures in the woods, dancing silhouettes of silver moonlight in deep wells and flickering shapes of bonfire flames._

 _A light twinkled in the blue of France's eyes, reflecting those far-away fires. He remembered something, and couldn't deny it._

" _Not everything is good and pure about this religion," England whispered. "The church is corrupted and doesn't care about our people, and you know it, even if you don't want to admit it. The people who teach you what to believe in don't know you. But I do. And I have for longer than this God you speak of. I know that you're pure, kind, and good. Hell, Francis, you're goddamn perfect. If God exists, he wouldn't want you to hide your beauty."_

 _France was at loss for words. He stared at England for a long, silent moment which seemed to stretch on and on. Then he carefully set down the dress by his side, and began to undress._

* * *

England wasn't an outstanding dancer. He was good enough, but never perfect, because he could never relax and go with the flow of the music, instead planning his every step, putting too much thought into what should be simple. He knew that if he let go, it would become much easier and _look_ better, but he couldn't shake off the feeling of being watched. He wasn't used to this kind of situation, since most of the time, there was simply no reason to dance.

France as his partner was more than enough of a reason.

For France it seemed to come as easily as breathing; he glided across the floor, his steps light as air, but stable and secure, so England could tell exactly where he was and where he was going. He savoured each move, enjoying it, taking his time to complete it before moving on to the next. "You're so tense," he said. "Relax."

"I'm trying." England lifted his arm, letting France spin below it. "But everyone is looking at us."

"Because we're us," France replied, returning his palm to England's shoulder, "the two most powerful countries in Europe, and by far the best looking couple in this party."

 _Couple._ Oh, fucking hell, after all these years, hearing France say something like that still wrecked his heart. _I wish we were._

France must have felt the way he missed his next step by a beat, or seen a change in his expression. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"It's ok," England said quickly. "Don't worry about it." He looked around again. The guests were definitely staring; it wasn't just his imagination. Suddenly, he felt angry; it was his and France's own moment, a rare chance to just be together, and all those judging eyes saw this as no more than a scandalous source for political gossip. They could never come close to understanding the subtleties of their relationship.

He quickened his pace, in sync with the growing tempo of the music, with its rising and falling melodies of strings, and began guiding France in faster and faster circles towards the center of the dance floor. France laughed with surprise, but caught up easily, his dress flaring around him. For the first time that night, England let his instincts take over, focusing on France only. "Better give those arseholes a show," he said, placing both hands on France's waist and lifting him in the air, still spinning.

He set him back on the floor a moment later, and France resumed his steps naturally, taking hold of his hands again, not a slight bit dizzy. "Agreed", he said. He let go of one of England's hands, spinning outwards, then back, leaning against his arm. His smile was as bright and warm as the sun, his cheeks flushed with excitement.

It had become a performance; between the other dancers, who didn't do much more than slowly swaying from side to side, they stood out like a rose among thorns. France was the better one, of course; he was mesmerising, impossible to look away from. In his movements, there was the spring that England remembered from their childhood. There was a time in which he thought he would never see this careless happiness again, centuries which France passed in hiding and self-loathing. But he had survived those dark years, and emerged stronger and more beautiful than ever, like a radiant flower in a bloodied battlefield.

To think someone so amazing would look at England like _that…_

Then the piece ended, and England held him and dipped him backwards dramatically, catching him just before he hit the floor. France's breath caught, visibly, and he looked up at him with wide eyes. There was silence all around, then a round of scattered, hesitant applause sounded, and died out quickly.

France's hair was falling back loosely, messy from their wild dance. A bead of sweat glistened on his forehead, and his lips, pink like his cheeks, were parted. He was gorgeous. Looking at him, England felt like he would go mad.

He pulled him back up as the last notes of the piece dissolved into silence. A new one started playing, smooth and somewhat suggestive, and with it, the lights in the hall dimmed. The chandeliers now seemed to float in a sea of twilight, and it felt like the other dancers were separated from them by a large, empty space. "How romantic," France hummed.

Many eyes were still on them, but it was no less intimate, with a constant flow of fleeting touches and France's eyes intensely fixed on his own. England could smell his sweat, mixing with his sweet rosy perfume, the scent reminding him of nights in more private rooms, with France closer than now. He felt like burying his face in France's neck and inhaling deeply.

Was France aware of the effect he had on him? Most likely. He seemed to brush against him just a little bit more than necessary, to keep so close their faces almost touched. His hand moved from England's shoulder to the bare skin of his neck. His eyes were half-lidded, and there was something self-satisfied about his grin. On a different day, a different situation, England would have probably found that smug look annoying; tonight, he had to hold back from kissing France on the spot.

Suddenly, France leaned forward and pressed his lips to England's ear. "Let's find a room," he whispered.

A wave of heat washed through England's body. He gave a hesitant chuckle. "Already?"

Instead of an answer, France gave him a kiss, a deep and passionate one, and with that, the last working part of England's brain died out with a shower of sparks. He pulled France closer and kissed back, marvelling at the softness of his lips, the sweetness of his tongue, the heat of his body against his own. He could never possibly have enough of him.

"Alright," he panted, when they pulled away at last, "let's go get a room."

* * *

 _France had grown taller, like England himself. It looked like a giant had grabbed him by the head and the tows and stretched him, his once round and soft limbs now thin and twiggy. He still looked like an angel, though, his hair like a halo, his skin marble, every feature delicate and sculptured. As always, he wasn't embarrassed to show his nudity around England - it was after he pulled on the light blue dress of silk, that he suddenly seemed to cower away from England's gaze, trying to hide his face behind his draping hair._

 _Wordlessly, England took his hand and pulled him upright, then took a step back to look at him. The sleeves were a bit too long, with only France's fingertips peeking under the edge, but aside from that, it was a perfect fit._

" _You look amazing," England found himself saying. "I love it."_

 _France's tense shoulders seemed to relax somewhat, and he looked at England, a relieved smile spreading across his face. "Thank you." He took a few hesitant steps, the dress swishing as he moved, then twirled around. The dress flared, the fabric sparkling, and France laughed. "This always feels so nice!"_

 _England couldn't help but smile as well, and he watched until France slowed down and turned to face him, his expression serious again. "I'm so glad I have you, Arthur," he said. "I don't know what I would've done without you."_

" _Well, I'm-" England's voice broke in the middle of his words. "I'm glad to have you, too." Indeed, all the problems of the world seemed small when he had France at his side._

 _The next month, they were at war; it was a hundred years before they met again as friends._

* * *

From the way France confidently lead him by the hand up a spiralling staircase and through a corridor decorated in rococo style, England could only guess that he had this planned beforehand.

Not that he minded, really.

The room was at the very end of the corridor, and they were impatient, walking faster and faster until practically running the last few meters and making it past the half-opened door. Large bed, clean white sheets, lowered shutters - all of those England noted absently from the corner of his eye as he slammed the door shut behind them, pressed France to the wall and kissed him. " _Je te veux_ ," he said, just to feel the shiver run down his spine. " _Je veux te prendre_."

"Then what are you waiting for?" France replied breathily, throwing his legs around England's waist.

England carried France to the bed, kissing along his neck, finally breathing in his intoxicating smell. He set him down carefully, and was about to lean in for another kiss when a red light dimly flashed in his foggy mind. He reluctantly got up and turned to the door.

France sprung up to a sitting position. "Where are you going?"

"To lock the door," England said reassuringly, picking up the key from a bureau. "Just in case."

"Ah." France relaxed back onto the bed, shooting him a sheepish smile. "Right."

It was a stubborn lock, and it took a few clumsy attempts and juicy curses before England had finally figured it out. When he turned around, to find France sprawled expectantly, one arm thrown over his head, the other suggestively lifting the lower hem of his dress, he had to grab the edge of the bureau to steady himself. "Fuck."

France winked and wiggled his finger in a _come-hither_ motion, and the knowledge of what awaited made England short of breath. With his heart pounding in his chest, he returned to the bed and lowered himself into France's embrace.

* * *

A few hours later, they were still together in that small room. A bedside lamp coloured the scene in a warm yellow hue, and the only sound was the flipping of pages in England's book. France's head rested comfortably in his lap, and England's free hand absently stroked his hair.

"I had fun today," France mumbled with his eyes closed, sounding tired but content.

England chuckled. "Me too."

They fell silent again, and England returned to his book with a smile. A few moments later, France spoke again. "Artie?"

England's smile widened. "Yes, Franny?"

"Love you."

England's grin couldn't possibly be wider now. "I love you too," he said, bending down his head and kissing France's forehead. "More than anything in the world."


End file.
